


All in the Family—Chalk Talk

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Heliotrope Series [6]
Category: Castle (TV 2009)
Genre: Cute Kids, F/M, Family, Fluff, Married Couple, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24301603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: So, because CoraClavia is a terrible person, she forced me—FORCED ME—to write a number of ridiculous stories where Caskett have a daughter named Madeleine (who has imaginary friends—siblings—named Heliotrope and Jacquard, who are impeccably dressed throughout all their adventures). This cropped up tonight. Wut?
Relationships: Kate Beckett & Richard Castle, Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Series: The Heliotrope Series [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/286134
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t want to be the one to tell him it will end in tears. But whatever it is—his grand surprise—she’s sure before he even unveils it that it will end in tears. That is simple the state of the Mad One’s Union these days. 

She doesn’t want to be the one to tell him it will end in tears. But whatever it is—his grand surprise—she’s sure before he even unveils it that it will end in tears. That is simple the state of the Mad One’s Union these days. 

“Fireworks for Alexis. That’s traditional. ” He has insisted she close her eyes. He’s leading her by the hand around to the pool. He stops short and she crashes into him. “You aren’t gonna narc on me just because they’re the good kind, are you?” 

“Homicide cop, Castle.” She makes a face and shakes her head. “Like I’d stoop to narcing about fireworks?” 

He squeezes her arm with pleasure, and she feels a twinge of multilayered guilt. She’s glad for the cover the question offers. She’s already pressing her lips together hard to keep from pointing out that Alexis has said, again and again, with increasingly desperate looks at Kate, that she is a very tentative _Maybe_ for the big Official Summer in the Hamptons Kickoff Weekend. She’s pressing her lips together hard to keep from reminding him that they aren’t really spending Summer in the Hamptons, because she has to work. 

“Okay. I need you to stand here for a second.” He drops her arm. “But no peeking. You’re not peeking, are you?” 

“I’m not—” She can feel him waving a hand two millimeters from her face, and she swats back. “I’m not _peeking,_ Castle. Just show me already.” “Almost,” he calls out from what seems to be surprisingly far away. She hears an odd sound, like plates and mugs jostling in a plastic dish tub, but not quite. “Almost ready.” She twists in place, anxiously cocking an ear in what she thinks is the direction of the open French doors. Madeleine has been asleep for something like fourteen consecutive minutes by her count, and it can’t last. The way things have been lately, it absolutely cannot last. “Aaaaannnd.” His sudden voice in her ear makes her jump a mile high, but he catches her by the hips. He turns her to face the direction he has in mind. “Ready!” 

“Oh.” It’s all she can manage at first. He’s vibrating with excitement behind her, but when she sees the pitch black expanse of ground stretching beyond the pool with their names written— _Mama, Daddy, Gram, Alexis, Madeleine_ —in multicolored, multi-flourished letters that must be six inches high, all she can manage is _Oh_. “Is that—?” 

“Chalkboard paint.” He dashes around the edge of the pool, pulling her along with him, until she’s standing with her bare toes just touching the line where the sand-colored flagstones end and the stretch of black begins. “Had to pull up the pavers and pour concrete—did you know chalkboard paint works on concrete? And colored chalk? Colored chalk is _way_ better than it was when we were kids.” 

“ _We?_ ” She can’t resist arching an eyebrow at him. 

“Since _I_ was a kid and _you_ were . . . I’m going to go with embryo, because thinking about a twinkle in your dad’s eye makes me uncomfortable.” He makes a face, and she gives him a _yes, please_ nod. “But isn’t this great? When she doesn’t want to be in the pool, she can be out her just drawing her little heart out, and _you . . ._ ” He grabs her hand and steps out to arm’s length before spinning her into his body. “You get to float around with fruity rum drinks.” 

“Fruity rum drinks?” She tucks her chin into her collar bone and peers up at him through her lashes. She’s being seduced by the picture he paints, in spite of herself. “I don’t recall that in the brochure.” “I’ll fire our marketing department, because that should have been on the cover,” he purrs in her ear. “I intend to _ply_ you with a steady, yet safe-for-the-pool stream of fruity rum drinks.” 

“Ply,” she says leaning back into him. “I’m a fan of plying, Of being plied.” 

“Counting on that.” He wraps his arms around her waist. “Because I plan on plying, wearing out our little terror with cannonballs and sidewalk chalk, and then the post-plying festivities begin.” 

She wants to believe. She _badly_ wants to believe that a trip smack dab in the middle of their sweet, funny, wildly entertaining four-year-old’s unexpected transformation into the Bad Seed won’t accelerate the process. She turns in his arms and rests her palm along his jawline. “She’s gonna love it,” she tells him, and it’s not _not_ true. Madeleine _will_ love it eventually or initially or for fifteen seconds every twelve hours or in the middle of the night when she will wail until they give in and carry her out to it. She will love it . . . somehow. But it’ll end in tears. 

* * *

It sort of begins in tears. Madeleine actually sleeps for thirty-eight minutes beyond the first fourteen, making it some kind of record for the last twelve days. When she wakes, she’s clingy and babyish. She cries out for Mama and Kate sweeps her up in her arms. 

She’s _heavy_ these days. It’s strange, because she’s spindly and long-legged, as Kate herself was at that age, but she’s also solid enough to make her mother’s shoulders ache long before the Mad One will even _think_ of being put down. 

“I can take you, baby girl,” he offers, stepping close, but Madeleine turns her head swiftly into Kate’s neck. 

“No. Not a _baby_.” She hollers right in her mother’s ear. “Want my mama.” 

“Uh, excuse me then, _Miss_.” He tugs at her toes, falling back on old patterns that have served him well for the whole of her life until the calendar flipped and most of May had expired. “Aren’t those mutually exclusive?” 

“ _Not_ Ess loose luv!” 

The girl’s voice is winding up, and Kate is trying her hardest not to glare at him. They’re both sleep deprived. They’ve both been working too hard and Madeleine has spoiled them up to this point. She’s been rambunctious and melodramatic and exhaustively curious, but she’s been such an _easy_ baby, toddler, growing little girl up this point. 

“Hey, loose luv.” She makes a Herculean effort to bounce her daughter’s heavy body in the hopes of kidding her out of this mood. “Did you know Daddy has a surprise for you?” 

“A _big_ surprise?” She peers up at Kate with more skepticism than some of the seasoned detectives she knows. “ _Just_ for me?”

“A Daddy-sized surprise,” Kate tells her. She sticks out her tongue at Castle, short-circuiting his reflexive eyebrow waggle. “By the pool. Should we go see?” 

“Down!” Madeleine exclaims as she engages some kind of gravitational field that almost takes the two of them right to the ground. Kate manages to set the girl on her feet. “You all right?” Castle is already taking off after her, but he snags the doorframe on his way through. 

“Fine.” Kate presses a hand to her lower back. “Go, before she’s screaming about the pool gate.” 

He beats her there. He manages to speed-dial the combination lock and has the gate open almost before she has to break stride. Madeleine’s eyes go wide as she spies the chalkboard that’s as tall as she is, twice over. She takes three swift steps straight toward it, not seeming to care that the pool itself is in the way. 

“Hey, hey.” Castle catches her by the hand. “Let’s go around until you’ve got your suit on and not a pretty sundress, okay?” 

Madeleine obliges. She scampers along the more regular tiles that form the pool’s edge, dragging Castle in her wake. She stops abruptly with her tiny bare toes in almost exactly the spot Kate’s had come to rest earlier. “This is _black_ ,” she states. Her tone is a comical echo of Kate’s own when she has a suspect against the ropes. “It _is_ black,” Castle says cautiously. “But Memorial Day is Monday, so it’s _technically_ still after Labor Day until then. We can check with Gram, but even Heliotrope should be okay with black by the pool.” “The ground is _brown_.” Madeleine whirls. Her hand reaches out in a pathetic gesture as though she’d draw the color up off the flagstones and hold it to her heart if she could. “All the rest is _brown._ ” 

Castle looks helplessly in Kate’s direction. “Black and brown. That works, right?” 

“Mixed neutrals,” she says briskly as she makes her way to join them. “Heliotrope approved.” She catches Madeleine’s fingers as she passes by. She pulls her to stand in the center of the chalkboard paint. “Look, Mad One. Do you see what this is?” She taps her toe on the the tall _M_ at the beginning of her name. “What does this say?” 

The girls frowns. She tips her head to the side and counts the letters under her breath. She stumbles over six and five, reversing them, then correcting herself. 

“This _Madeleine!_ ” She looks from Kate to Castle to Kate again, astonished. “This mine name!” 

“Just like at school.” Castle creeps warily toward the two of them. “When Miss Oz writes Madeleine up on the board when you’re Sparkle-Star Good?” 

“I not at school.” Madeleine looks down at her own name with all the sadness in the world in her eyes. “Mine friends at school. School is far _away_.”

Kate’s heart breaks. She can’t bear to look at Castle. It’s such a silly, obvious thing—she misses school. She’s been missing her friends these last eight miserable days, but she’s so _little._ Isn’t she still too little for this? She finally does look at Castle. It’s a mistake. He’s frozen in place. He’s silent, but even a quick glance tells her that he’s _beside_ himself. 

She suddenly sees him at Madeleine’s age, with Madeleine’s wide blue eyes and hair five shades lighter than her dark curls. She sees him constantly uprooted as Martha struggled to make ends meet through Summer Stock productions and work where she could get it. She sees him miserable and volatile and utterly unlike his usual, sweet, tender-hearted little self. 

She looks down at her feet, her skin stark white with winter. She sees the grand gesture for what it is—a piece of this place transformed for the exclusive use of their charming, challenging, wonderful little miss, who’s having the kind of hard time he remembers having. 

She drops to her butt in the middle of black. The paint has spent the day soaking up the sun, and it’s pleasantly warm against the bare skin of the back of her thighs. She flips open the treasure chest full of chalk—because of course there is a literal treasure chest full of chalk—and hefts a fresh, satisfying chunk in her hand. “Is it, Mad One?” She quickly sketches a rickety square with a triangle on top. She shades in a door, a window with four panes. “Is school far, or is it right here?” She pats her creation.

“That’s not school.” Madeleine stomps. Her bare foot makes a resounding _slap_ right on the window. “It _not._ ”

“Oh, it’s not?” Kate waggles the chalk enticingly. “Can you show me, then? Can you show me and Daddy what school looks like?” “I show you.” She turns up her nose at the proffered chalk and heads for the treasure chest. “I show,” she repeats, coming up with her own piece. “School purple, Mama.” 

“Purple!” Kate smacks her forehead dramatically with the heel of her hand. She catches his eye. She sees him take one pained, hitching breath, before he shakes himself—before he smiles and she smiles back, conspiratorial. “Of course, purple.” 

“Silly Mama.” He makes a production of lowering himself to the ground behind her. He snatches the chalk and reaches to stow it in the treasure chest. He takes her hand and kisses the chalky pink tips of her fingers. “Always purple.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I honestly didn't know when I wrote this if there would more to this. It didn't go where I thought it would. But that’s hardly news. It ends up three chapters, I think? 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Can’t sleep. Sad about John Prine. And so an aimless ending.

He has been banished—absolutely banished—from the big bedroom and the surrounding areas. In fact, he is not even allowed on the second floor. The Mad One insists on Mama, no substitutes, no intruders, if anything resembling normal bed time rituals are to be observed. And he’s fine with that. 

He’s _mostly_ fine with that, except Alexis isn’t going to make it tonight, and she probably will only be able stay the afternoon tomorrow. Even his mother has, of course, gotten held up in the city, so the Official Summer in the Hamptons Kickoff Weekend is slow to get started. 

He’s mostly just feeling sorry for himself for the look of it, though. He’s pleasantly tired with sun and fruity rum drinks—with having a four year old—and he’s glad of the quiet time. And, of course, he loves how entirely Madeleine worships Kate. He revels in every mannerism she picks up from her mother, and he thinks a thousand times a day how _lucky_ he got this time around. 

The only thing—the _only_ thing—he would change about raising Alexis would be to spare her the pain of Meredith’s vagaries. And here, now, feeling sorry for himself just for the look of it, he thinks for the thousand-and-first time today how lucky he got this time. 

It carries him to the French doors standing half open. He looks up at a sky that’s darkening fast. There looks to be a good summer storm rolling in over the water. He can hear Madeleine’s shrieks—happy shrieks, he’s pretty sure—echoing around the master bath, overhead, and Kate’s response to his _Do you need an exit?_ text was a video close-up of the two of them in close-up reminding him _NO BOYS ALLOWED_. 

It’s been a good day—a lovely day lolling on the giant, sun-baked chalkboard, then slipping into the cool water, only to hoist themselves back up a while later to press their shivering skin into the pleasant warmth of that black, black expanse. 

And they have high hopes for _some_ sleep tonight. Madeleine has to have run the equivalent of a marathon around the edge of the pool to demonstrate her cannon ball, her jackknife, her recently-invented Pony Dog, which mostly involves a kind of gallop, then a spin, then the biggest splash possible. She has done her level best to talk herself out entirely with mile-a-minute stories, each one illustrated, about her friends at school, most of whom seem to be named Mabel, except for the occasional Braden, Jaden, Caiden, or some other random consonant stapled to a long _A_ sound and a final _N._

She has his gift for character and shameless embellishment, but it’s interesting—it’s _interesting_ —the way she’s into people lately. Heliotrope and Jacquard haven’t gone anywhere—they’re often minor players in her tales from the schoolyard—but they’re definitely more on the back burner than they were even a month ago. 

She’s curious about real people, from her teachers to their neighbors to her friend’s families. She’s nosy and insightful and _loves_ knowing things no one else knows. He hopes she’s destined to be either a writer or a cop, because otherwise she might grow up to be a super villain. 

The first flash of lighting comes as he stands there thinking it would actually be pretty cool to have a super villain in the family. The swipe of its blue-white tongue over the world stirs him. He waits for the thunder and tries to recall if there’s anything out by the pool or on any of the porches that absolutely needs battening down. He’s just stepping through the doors to check when another light—another _two_ lights—sweep across the the glass of the doors. 

There’s whispering behind him, stage and otherwise. There are _giggles_ and a general air of furtiveness infiltrates the room. He pivots toward the interior of the study and catches them—two very stealthy figures in trench coats. Madeleine apparently has a tiny, devastatingly cute little belted trench coat, and the hem of her Princess Leia nightie is peeking out beneath. To complete the look, they’re each carrying a flashlight. 

“What’s all this then?” he says gruffly, dropping into character with an alacrity that would do his mother proud. “Bedtime violations? I thought we had . . . an understanding.” “It’s a _mission,”_ Madeleine says sternly. “Me and Mama are on it.” 

“A mission,” he nods gravely. “And here I thought this was nothing more than a very tired little girl up past her bed time.” 

“Special circumstances,” Kate’s whisper is conspiratorial. It’s for Madeleine’s benefit, but the look she gives him over the girl’s head suggests there’s something afoot. “The storm—“ 

“ _Thunder_ storm,” Madeleine interjects. 

“Right, baby.” Kate gets a heavy look from her daughter, who is _not_ a baby. He gets a look in turn when he can’t quite stifle a laugh. “We’re going to say goodnight to our friends so they’re not scared about the the thunderstorm.” 

“Our chalk friends,” he says, thinking he begins to see the trouble. It’s one thing for the Mad One herself to happily slop pails of pool water on to one chalk scenario and begin anew; it’s quite another for any of the Mabels, any of the long A, final _N_ crowd to disappear in the rain. “Yes.That’s a good plan,” he finishes, hoping Kate actually has a plan. 

She has a plan, of course, because he’s struck it lucky. He’s allowed to join the mission—after he finds a coat to put on, of course. It’s an old, army green rain poncho he finds in a closet he can’t actually remember ever opening before. Madeleine is disdainful until he produces a heavy Maglite she badly wants to carry. She’s on the verge of another nervous breakdown, but Kate pulls the situation out of the fire. 

“He’s our _minion,_ Mad One.” She drops to one knee and pulls Madeleine into a side bar. “That means he has to carry all our _stuff_.” 

“Mission minion,” she crows, delighted by the internal alliteration. 

The two of them creep through the doors first. Madeleine tiptoes with about as much stealth as Inspector Clouseau. Kate follows her lead, biting down hard on her lip to keep from laughing. He brings up the rear, lighting a wide arc at their bare feet. 

They flatten their backs to the high wooden gate, then dart from column to column. Madeleine keeps an exaggerated lookout for sneak thieves and curious bunnies and a host of other old friends and foes of Heliotrope and Jacquard. Kate takes her hand as they reach the edge of the chalkboard paint. 

“Are we ready to say goodnight?” she asks gamely, though they hardly need the flashlights to see the girl’s lip quivering and the tears shimmering in her eyes. 

“I don’t want my friends to _go,”_ Madeleine wails. She presses her face into the silvery grey skirts of Kate’s trench coats. “I don’t want my story to go.” 

He steps tentatively into the fray, poncho flapping noisily as the wind gets serious about kicking up. He weighs his options and sets the Maglite on its heavy end, pointing up at the three of them. 

“Hey.” He reaches gently for her shoulder, persisting when she clings tighter to her mother. “Can I tell you a story about stories?” 

_“NO!”_ The word rings out. Mere fabric is no match for the Mad One’s lung capacity. 

“Okay, then. I’ll tell Mama a story about stories.” 

Kate gives him a wry look that conveys a wealth of feelings about this prospect. But lightning jolts the sky, and this is where they are. Kate gives him a _Go on_ shrug, so he does. 

“Mama, do you know how when we go to work—” 

“Daddy doesn’t go to _work_ ,” Madeleine can’t resist the tearful interjection. “Daddy stays in jammy pants.” 

Kate’s shoulders shake with laughter. He sticks out his tongue at her and begins again. 

“Mama, you know how when I _sometimes_ go to your work—”

“ _Not_ in jammy pants,” she interjects.

“Not in jammy pants, because Mama is a mean Captain,” he adds, even though it’s guaranteed to set Madeleine off again. It does. She howls that Mama is _not_ mean. Her chest heaves, and he relents. “Not because Mama is mean. Because Mama’s work has uniforms. And we tell stories on a big board just like this one.” 

“We do,” Kate picks up the thread. She gives him a look that’s a little sad, because the Board is an infrequent indulgence for both of them these days. “We write and we write and we have pictures.” 

“What kinda pictures?” She tugs at Kate’s coat. “Mama, what kinda?” 

“Oh . . . people and places and . . . pretty jewelry sometimes,” she improvises, looking a little desperate. He sympathizes. All he can think of is bloody implements and scar-faced criminals at the moment.

“But when Mama solves the case—and Mama always solves it—” he reaches down and retrieves the Maglite, “Whoosh!” He sweeps the beam across the black surface, lighting up the purples and pinks and vivid greens for just an instant. Lighting up the curly hair and the triangle dresses, and the lopsided globe on the six-legged desk. “Whoosh! We say goodbye so we can start a new story.” 

“I wanna new story,” she says uncertainly. “For tomorrow. New story.” 

“That’s what we’ll do then.” Kate reaches a hand down to stroke the tear-stained cheek. “Tomorrow—all day—we’ll do all new stories.” 

“But we have to say goodnight to this one.” He steps closer to the two of them. “We can get your pail and _Whoosh!_ Or the thunderstorm can go _Whoosh!”_ He slides an arm around Kate’s waist and makes Madeleine wriggle by tickling under her chin. “Which one, Mad One?” 

She thinks about it long enough that the rain starts to fall in big fat drops. Kate leans against him, her fingers clutching his where they rest on her hip. 

“Flashlight _Whoosh!_ ” Madeleine says at last, as she tilts the beam of her own flashlight crazily across her canvas. “Flashlight and thunderstorm. _Whoosh!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aimless. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oops. I guess they wanted to canoodle? Obviously Cora Clavia‘s diablerie at work. 

There’s a kind of tired she gets when they’re out here that reminds her of childhood. It is sandy and sunbaked, and it leaves all her skin feeling pleasantly and salty, even after a hot shower or a long soak in the tub. It reminds her of Coney Island and feeling sticky and heavy on the rocking train back Into Manhattan. 

The feeling is amplified tonight by the day— _this_ day spent mostly by the pool, spent sprawled out and dragging chalk meant for little hands against the smooth black ground. It has its edges smoothed by the twilight walk on the beach they’d finally talked Madeleine into, even though her arms ache from it—from hauling her up off the ground between them and swinging her high, reaching out to keep her upright as her feet slapped hard against the wet sand. 

It’s intensified, that weariness, by the thunderstorm wrapping the world in its embrace. Her eyes are closed. She has an arm flung across them as she stretches out across their bed on an angle, but the way the blue-sheeted world slips through her lashes brings a lazy smile to her face every time. The thunder rolls through her chest, almost making her wish she weren’t too tired to reach out and drag the comforter over herself for burrowing purposes. 

“Victory.” His voice comes from the doorway. It makes her jump a little, though probably not as much as ought. She’d worry about her cop reflexes getting dull if she weren’t drifting so pleasantly, so completely. 

“She’s asleep?” She lifts a hand blindly and waits for him to come to her. He does not disappoint, and the kiss he drops against the pulse point of her wrist sends a lackadaisical thrill through her that runs—slowly runs—all the way down to her toes. 

“Oh, I don’t know if she’s _asleep_.” The bed dips as he lowers himself on to the edge. “She is, however, in bed and out of the trench coat.” 

She peeks at him out of one cracked-open eyelid. “And the trench coat has been removed to an undisclosed location?” 

“What am I, some kind of amateur? It’s on top of the tallest bookcase in Alexis’s room.” He sighs. “I will have to thank my mother properly for that . . . invigorating battle.” 

She feels her lips twitch as though they’re someone else’s. Apparently she’s too tired for a poker face. And he’s not tired enough to miss it. “Katherine Beckett, I _do_ have my mother to thank for that remarkably well tailored _child’s_ trench coat—which, by the way, will fit for about twelve-and-a-half-minutes—don’t I?” He whisks her shirt up to expose the vulnerable skin over her ribs. She draws her knees up to block his wriggling fingers, but not fast enough. “ _Don’t_ I?” 

“It was cute!” she pleads, laughing and pulling at his hand as she curls up, tight as a pillbug. “It was just so cute!” 

“Of course it’s cute!” He pulls his hand back, blinking as a flash of her teeth miss his knuckles y by a hair’s breadth. “It’s criminally adorable. That’s not the point.” 

“So what’s the point?” She feigns innocence.

“The point, _Captain_ , is that you used our daughter’s sartorial frailties for nefarious purposes.” He holds a palm out, blocking his own view of the eyelashes she’s fluttering a mile a minute. “To wit, engaging in flagrant detective cosplay, swaying her unduly toward the cop end of the potential professional spectrum—“

“Hey, you’ve got jammy pants going for you,” she protests, even as she drags her fingernails down the soft flannel covering his thigh. 

“— _and_ ,” he rolls on, ignoring her interjection, “ _and_ generally making her like you better.” He gives an injured sniff and falls back on the bed next to her. “No wonder I was bath time chopped liver.” 

“Uh, excuse me. You poured concrete to make her a ten-foot-wide storyboard. So who’s _really_ doing the undue swaying on the potential profession front?” She rolls up on her elbow to study him in the firelight with another sudden shot of electric blue through it. “Besides, who was bed time chopped liver?”

“Thunderstorm,” he says as though it’s obvious. He holds up a finger and cocks his head toward the doors opening on to the balcony. The sheet-metal sound of thunder makes itself known and he drops his hand. “We needed to check in on Jacquard. Heliotrope is still furious that he got his finest Turkish robe all muddy splashing all the way out to the stables to check on Llewellyn.” She finds she’s too tired to hold her head up and worms her way under his arm to rest a cheek against his chest. He’s deliciously warm, and she can feel her eyelids gettin heavier by the second. “Is Llewellyn the valet?”

“Excuse me? Llewellyn is Jacquard’s yearling foal. He would be _no_ help at all getting an ascot tied.” He tips his head to slant a kiss across her temple. “Ambrosius is the valet. He trained in cravats and morning ties in the court of Empress Gladiola.”

“Gladiola. Mmm,” she mumbles. “This is why I’m bedtime chopped liver.”

“Well, the good news is,” he pitches his voice low, “i am very, _very_ into bedtime chopped liver.” He falls abruptly silent. “That’s gross isn’t it? Bed and chopped liver are not things that go together.” 

“They are not,” she says, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “They are definitely not.” 

“How about a fruity rum drink?” he asks, sounding hopeful. “That definitely goes with bed, and you had like half of one all day. I really fell down on my plying duties.” 

“No fruity things. No cold things.” She shivers at the very thought, all over her body, though she suspects it’s weariness more than anything. Still, she has a sudden longing for something warm to wrap her hands around. “Tea?”

“Tea?” She can hear his frown, even though her eyes are closed. “Tea is not a very Official Summer in the Hamptons Kickoff Weekend-y beverage.” 

“And that was not a very sentence-y sentence, Writer Boy.” She pokes at his ribs. “Tea? Please?” 

“All right.” He sighs melodramatically as he lifts her head and slips out from under her. “But I warn you.” He leans down, hovering his lips just shy of hers. “There may be bourbon in it. I’m very committed to this plying plan.” 

“And what makes you think—“ She stretches her arms high overhead and arches her spine. The sultry effect she was going for is somewhat spoiled by the enormous yawn that escapes her. “What makes you think plying will do you any good?” 

“I think you might be pre-plied with sun and sand and the Mad One.” He laughs and knocks her forehead with his own. “I can work with pre-plied.”

“I think,” she yawns again. She stretches her weary, heaving limbs all the way down to the tips of her toes. “I think you won’t find out if you don’t hurry.” “Hurrying,” he calls over his shoulder. The word lingers, then sounds out again as he vanishes from sight. “Hurrying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ludicrous.


End file.
